In Sickness
by sunshineditty
Summary: It's been three months since Sam left for college and nothing has changed. Except everything has. Bobby's p.o.v.


"Baby boy," Dean whispered fitfully, his head whipping back and forth on the sweat-dampened pillow, fingers curling into claws as if he was restraining himself from reaching out for something. _Or ____someone_, as his whispers indicted. To the two men on either side, they knew of only one person Dean would call for, and ___he_ wouldn't be responding any time soon.

John exchanged glares with Bobby as they hovered the younger Winchester's bed, both reaching for the wet washcloth at the bedside. It was day three of Dean's illness and he wasn't getting any better; in fact, his temperature was two degrees higher than the day before, so it didn't appear any of their efforts were paying off. As Hunters, they tended to live off the grid, relying on home remedies when hurt or sick, and only use conventional medicine as a last resort, and it definitely looked like they might have to bring Dean to an Urgent Care, if not an Emergency Room.

"You're a god-durned fool, John Winchester. This boy needs help."

John growled at his grizzled companion, hating any parental advice from a childless man.

"He's fine, this is only the flu."

"And history hasn't proved that the flu can kill," was the sardonic retort.

"He'll be fine, just make him take some more of the Ju-Ju Juice Marley gave you."

"His sickness ain't caused by magical means so it ain't gonna help him! He'd dehydrated and delirious, John. He needs a hospital."

The tense silence was shattered when Dean arched off the bed, his green eyes wide open as he screamed "Sammy!" over and over in a high chilling voice, his bare upper body flushed and sweaty. It took them a few precious minutes and John promising over and over that Sam was okay, before they were able to wrestle the sick man back down on the bed, where he finally slumped back into unconsciousness.

Bobby swept back a few strands of sweat-darkened blond hair from his friend's face, and turned a resolute face to the boy's father.

"I ain't above shootin' you in the kneecaps to slow ya down. He's goin' to the damn hospital even if I halfta kill you gettin' him there."

But the fight had left John, his dark eyes troubled as he stared at his oldest boy. "He never gets sick; it was always Sammy who did. Dean never seemed to catch whatever his brother had, and would nurse him to health." Confusion and a soul-deep weariness accompanied the words, and Bobby could see it had cost him to say his youngest son's name. Ever since Sam "abandoned" the family for college, John forbade anyone to speak of him aloud.

Dean, normally a rabid honey badger where his brother was concerned, hadn't demurred and Sam ceased to exist, even if his ghost stood between the two men, his absence larger than his actual presence. In the three months since Sam boarded the Greyhound Bus, the tension had ratcheted up so much amidst the remaining Winchesters, Bobby was waiting for an explosion of some sort.

___Maybe this is the same thing_, he mused silently, eyes tracing over Dean's face.

He was John's boy through and through, except facially, where he musta taken after the much-grieved Mary Winchester. Dean was beautiful in a way most men weren't and Bobby knew it was often a problem when he was younger, though his iron will, heavy fists, and willingness to pull a knife had gone a long way to warding off the kind of trouble his looks could bring. It was this, as well as John's unflinching hardass ways, that created a tough to crack veneer of deadly cockiness. Sam was the only one who could get beneath his skin, and Bobby was afraid with the youngest Winchester gone, Dean's masks would cease to be a facade and become truth.

"Get the truck, Bobby. I'll take him into Sioux Falls."

"_We'll_ take him, you mean," Bobby fixed John with a gimlet eye. He respected John as a hunter, but didn't much trust or like him as a father, and never where his oldest boy was concerned. Too many incidents over the years had shown him that nobody cared about Dean except Sam, as Dean was the expendable one, the soldier boy who wouldn't lay down and die. He didn't doubt John's love for his sons, but he knew it was overshadowed by the narrow-minded field vision which was always focused on tracking down the ___thing_ that had taken the love of his life away.

"Fine," John gritted out between clenched teeth, his hands gently manipulating Dean into a sitting position. The young hunter was a floppy one hundred ninety pounds which made dressing him in a shirt somewhat problematic and both men decided against putting him in pants, leaving him in plaid boxers and socks.

Bobby stepped back to allow John to haul him up, expecting him to sling an arm over his shoulders, but John defied expectations and instead barked "Stand up straight and walk like a man, son," to which Dean opened blearily eyes and shuffled stepped in time to John's orders, weaving and swaying as he made his way to the door.

It was chilling, to say the least, how deep John's hooks went into Dean's psyche, for his orders to work even with the boy half-outta his head sick. Bobby began to see exactly why Sam couldn't hack it as the spare – Dean being the heir – to John's revenge fueled hunting. Sam was always gonna leave, no gettin' around that, but it made a lot more sense why Dean stayed instead of followin' behind like the nursemaid he'd played his whole durned life. His daddy's hard hand on the reins had kept the oldest in check, in spite of his own personal desires.

Bobby suspected had John left for a hunt the same night he kicked Sam out, Dean wouldn't have just dropped his brother off at the bus station, but drove him to California hisself and might notta come back. He was a man used to adoration from a side-kick brother and a hunter used to being one half of a whole; Dean was a crack shot and had a mighty fine sight for throwin', but he tended not to cover his right side, always expectin' someone to be there. It hadn't hurt him yet, but Bobby knew the day was acomin' when it would and oh Lord on high, it was gonna be one helluva lesson.

"Well, don't just stand there, follow him John! Make sure the god-durned fool ain't gonna tumble down the stairs and break his sorry neck."

John grumped back, his words too soft to hear, but Bobby knew the gist by his expression: _back the hell off, he's my son_. The old hunter didn't care much if Winchester was mad just as long as he took care of Dean.

The racket they made going down the stairs woulda raised the dead had any lingered around, but soon enough the three were tucked into one of the many junkers Bobby kept running around the salvage yard, and down the dirt road towards civilization. Just before the turn off taking them to the highway, Dean listed to the left and his feverish head bumped against Bobby's shoulder. The grizzled hunter was overcome with a sudden urge to pat the somewhat boyish face and whisper, "it'll be alright," but somehow Bobby didn't really think it would help.

The only person Dean wanted right now was several hundred miles away.

* * *

**A/N: **I was so distraught over the season 8 Bobby ep, I had to go back and rewatch Supernatural from the beginning as Bobby was one of my favorite characters and I prefer him alive. This story sort of sprung from that.


End file.
